Patchwork Promises
by James Prior
Summary: Today's the day of Ron and Hermione's wedding, but nothing is how she dreamed it would be. With bruises on her wrists and fear in her heart, she's resolved herself to push through the ceremony and hope life gets better. So, what happens when a familiar face barges through the chapel doors, shouting his objections? **Trigger Warning: Abuse, rape in one chapter**
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. blablabla.  
(Sorry about the headings; I'm trying to make them work with me.)

Patchwork Promises

Chapter One.

Fading.

"And do you, Hermione, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" Hermione grimaced, then caught herself. Ronald stood across from her, looking into the humble chunk of flowers that trembled in her hands. Yard weeds, really. Somehow, when Hermione had imagined her special day, dandelions were not on the list.

The list being the scraggly leather bound book Hermione kept under her bed at night. Magazine clippings, flower petals, poetry, songs, drawings, dreams… it was all in there. Her wedding had been planned fifteen times over since she turned twelve. But never, not once, did it include dandelions.

Ron cleared his throat, and Hermione jumped. She'd forgotten to answer the minister. Harry caught her eyes from behind Ron's shoulder, and he raised his brows in a silent question.

Hermione swallowed and looked at the floor.

"Merlin, Hermione," Ron whispered. "Any day now." The church chuckled collectively, thinking it was a joke. Of course, that's all it was, to the public. One. Big. Joke. She shifted, trying to hide more of the purpling hand-mark on her wrist under the pathetic bouquet

"Um…" Hermione began.

The church doors banged open, and its rustic wooden planks creaked in protest as it swung shut. All eyes in the pews turned, and jaws dropped. For there, drenched to the bone and covered in mood, stood Draco Malfoy.

"I object!" He shouted.

"We're not at that part yet, young man, so if you'll have a seat," the minister droned.

"'Mione, don't do it." His eyes were wide, and his hair hung down in front of them, streaks of mud and bits of grass hanging from the tips in clumps.

Hermione breathed, and some of the tension in her chest relaxed. Ron's fists balled, and he shouted to his groomsmen, "Don't just stand there!" Harry shrugged, waiting for Draco's diversion to distract Hermione enough so he could grab a word. Hermione knew that look in Harry's eyes. The "what've you gotten yourself into" look. He learned it from her, fourth year.

Buckbeak lunged from his seat next to Hagrid, knocking Draco to the ground.

"I'm glad that _someone_'s listening to me," Ron muttered, shoving the black, draping sleeve of his robe up to his tawny elbow as he stepped into the aisle. "Eh! Malfoy!" He shouted. "Haven't you done enough." A murmured agreement came from Ron's side of the family, while Hermione's rather empty side remained quiet and confused. Aunt Gerva still hadn't regained consciousness from when Mrs. Weasley levitated the cake onto a waiting tray. As always, Hermione felt… out of place. Even when it came to her guests. Like she was stepping on someone's table cloth and she just needed to apologize and move on so they could get through their meal in peace. But, this time, Malfoy was the one interrupting. And for some odd reason, Hermione didn't want him to be sorry about it.

"Could someone please help him?" Hermione finally worked up the courage to ask. "He doesn't look well." Ron's jaw tightened as he raked his gaze over Malfoy.  
"Hermione, this is our _wedding._"

Aunt Jenny's pew squeaked as the rotund woman shifted in her spot in the third row. Hermione glanced over, and Aunt Jenny gave her a small nod.

"Ron…" She left the small question in her tone, trailing off, hoping.

"What?" Ron's last attempt to sound cordial in front of the guests shattered. "You want me to drag him up here? Sit him in a place of honor?" The smell of rotting wheat accompanied Ron's shouts. "To Hell with it, why don't he just marry you?"

"Ronald Billius Weasley." Ginny marched forward, catching Ron's ear between her fingers, her words gritted out from between her teeth, slow. One at a time. Frightening. "If you care about your wedding," she paused. "If you care about Hermione, you'll rethink the kind of tone you're using right now."

"Step off, Gin." Ron replied cooly. "Harry, take care of your broad." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a dark bottle. "And while you're at it, throw the rat out on his ass." He sighed, his thick fingers working the cap off the bottle, then released his breath before touching his lips to the glass and taking a long draught.

"I think you've had enough," Harry said, hushed, as if the scene unfolding wasn't on complete display. He tugged the article away from Ron in one smooth jerk. "Ladies and Gentlemen," Harry turned to face the people seated. "As you might have been able to tell, we're having some… administrational difficulties at this point in time." A sprinkle of nervous titters littered the pews. "I'd like to apologize for the drama, and offer you some of the wonderful refreshments that Mrs. Weasley," he nodded to the woman in the first row, who was now hyperventilating from the awful turn of events. "has so kindly taken the time to bake." Harry paused before making eye contact with Hermione.

"At this juncture, the wedding will be postponed until further notice. I'm deeply sorry for the inconvenience, but I fear it would be highly inappropriate to continue in the current circumstances."

A chorus of uneasy creaks followed as the guests found their way to their feet. "I never's" and "To think that's" lurked in hushed whispers.

"You'll find assorted trays of Mrs. Weasley's Blue Berry Button Bars, and Tangerine Tasties on the table in the foyer."

As the last dejected strangers filtered from the room, Hermione found herself leaning against Harry's shoulder.

"I told you this wasn't a good idea." Harry murmured.

"And you were right." Hermione's voice shook. Harry shook his head.

"You don't sound like Hermione anymore," he lifted her chin with the knuckle of an index finger, tipping her face up to meet her eyes. "You used to fight me at the mere implication of an 'I told you so.'"

"I know when I'm beat." Hermione let her eyelids flicker down, tired. So tired. She never felt awake. There was only sleeping and the time before sleeping, it seemed.

"We could have gone through with it." Ron said. Hermione jumped at his statement.

"Don't sneak up on us like that." Harry said. Ron growled.

"First you cancel my wedding, then you get cozy with my girl, I think I'll interrupt as I please, Harry."

"You practically canceled your own wedding, Ron." Harry whipped around, the gold edge of his robe furling. "You've been nothing but rude, dishonorable, and drunk today. If Draco hadn't shown up when he did, you would of passed out on standing up due to alcohol poisoning."

"It's normal to drink on a man's wedding day." Ron quipped.

"It's also normal to wait until after." Harry's words were knives, and his eyes flashed. "Most people want to remain aware during their own wedding. What about Hermione?"

"I wouldn't feel the need to drink, if Hermione wasn't such a prude all the godd—" Ron started.

"I'm your best friend, Ron." Harry was quiet. Ron shrugged.

"So?"

"I'm your only friend." There was a silence. Then Harry finished the blow. "Don't make me regret that."

Ron's jaw hardened, and he stalked out the room. Hermione didn't follow.

Harry pushed a key into her palm.

"It was supposed to be your honeymoon suite, and home." He mumbled, apologetically. "It's in your name, 'Mione. My… my wedding present." Hermione stared at the bronze edges of the metal in her hand. "It's the cottage, the one you wanted."

"Ron didn't like that house." Hermione whispered.

"Good thing it doesn't belong to Ron," Harry replied.

"Harry," Hermione's voice caught. "You didn't…"

"Buy it?" Harry smiled. "I did. Don't think of it as charity. Think of it as payback for letting me copy off you all those years ago." Hermione's cheeks grew warm. She loved Harry, and she knew he had the best of intentions, but…

"We didn't get married." She said, offering the key back. "I can't accept this, Harry."

"Your father helped me with the down payment." Harry said. Hermione's throat tightened, and she closed her fingers over the gift. "He wanted you to have everything you ever dreamed of." Harry paused to look at the door Ron had stormed out of. "and someone worth sharing it with."

"I know." Hermione said.  
"Take some time," Harry whispered, patting her back. "Find out what _you _want."

Hermione nodded.

"I'll deal with Draco."

_Draco!_

Hermione gasped. "I'd forgotten," she said, then moaned. "I didn't provoke him, I promise, Harry, you must believe me."

"Shhh," Harry pressed his cool lips to Hermione's forehead, and walked her to the back door. "Take the limo," he quipped. "It's not as if anyone else is going to use it."

Hermione let him guide her to the waiting chauffer, then hugged him goodbye.

The man in the black suit gestured to the back door, "Shall I, Miss?"

The space would be so empty, all by herself.

"If you wouldn't mind," she murmured. "I'd like to sit in the front." The driver blinked in surprise, then hurried to sweep the door open. As Hermione settled herself in the cushy, leather seat, she glanced in the mirror. The backseats were closed off by the privacy screen. Hermione couldn't see into the space at all. It almost felt like a shield, from what could have been.

Crisp breeze from the AC pushed her curls back from her sweaty face, and the engine purred to life. Hermione looked once more at the key in her hand, before reciting the address she'd memorized, out of foolish longing, vain hope, and a million other things that crowded her mind out at night.

"22 Whistler Lane, Brighton and Hove, please."


	2. Chapter 2

*****Trigger Warning: Rape*******

Chapter Two.

Shreds.

Hermione pushed her feet between the satin sheets, letting the fabric rustle around her toes. The French manicure on her fingernails matched the bed's dressings, and Hermione found some sort of odd comfort in this. Order was nice, even if it was something small.

The floorboards creaked, and Hermione reached to turn the lamp on. It barely lit a foot or two around her. Maybe it was fact that it was first night that she'd spent in an empty house, since she was a small girl and her parents had forgotten to book a babysitter. Or maybe it was because she was missing the sound of Ginny's snoring. Or the thrumming of her mother's asthma machine. She used to rue the noise, and was proud that she was a quiet sleeper. Now, she wished she wasn't so complacent. So weak.

So alone.

A clank filled the silent air, muffled by the thick wooden door to the bedroom. Someone was in the kitchen. Hermione reached for her wand, abandoned on the side table, and pulled the blankets up over her chin.

"Please go away," she whispered. But the mysterious force was not one to be trifled with, and the noise continued. If Hermione closed her eyes very tightly, she could hear the rushing of blood in her head, and pretend that none of those was happening to begin with. She was back at Hogwarts, third year, and anyone who invaded the girls' dormitories would be punished with a flurry of hexes and a healthy helping of detention.

As if that would have stopped a real evil force. Real evil doesn't stop to let you reckon with it, Hermione figured. It just did what it wanted, and you picked up the pieces when it left. If it left. The realest evil that real evil did, was manipulating you into betraying yourself, so that you might become as it is. Sad. Dark. Twisted. Hopeless.

"Bloody Hell." A voice filtered under the door, and the latch shook. Hermione knew that voice.

Bam.

The door blasted open, and a tall, broad shouldered man stepped through, silhouetted by the light from the other room. A few specks of shine sparkled against the edges of his caramel-red hair.

"Why'd you lock it for?" Ron's words were almost slurred. He was drunk, but not drunk enough to pass out. Angry drunk was the worst kind of drunk, especially on Ron.

Hermione didn't reply, hoping he'd lose interest and give her a chance to phone for Harry.

"S'our wedding night," Ron's grin rolled over his features, and he lifted his shaggy brows. He reached a hand down to the bed, to steady himself. Or to approach. Hermione wasn't sure of which. The air was stale, and the sound of crickets outside serenaded them. Hermione decided that she didn't care for crickets. Her fingers twitched around her wand.

"We didn't get married, Ron," she said, slowly. Quietly. Cautiously. Like eggshells were sprinkled under her every word, and she had to slide the bowling ball of her message across them without upsetting the silence.

"Says who?" he said, pulling her blanket. The quilt slipped from Hermione's shaking fingers and slid down to her waist. The cold air in the room slapped across her shoulders, and she instantly regretted not wearing something a little more… conservative. Ron's eyes ate up her bared arms, the loose spaghetti strapped cami. She should've worn a bra. She cursed herself for her lack of attention. She had been so careful to keep Ron from seeing her like this. To keep from triggering him into something worse than he already was. She hadn't thought to change into something warmer. The quilt was quite thick, and she'd…she'd thought she would be safe, here.

"Not tonight, Ronald." She said. She was strong, wasn't she? He was drunk. He wouldn't remember. Maybe he wouldn't even try.

His hands came down on her knees, holding them in place.

"Ron." Hermione pleaded.

"I've been waiting for this day for years," he said. "You can't just take it away from me." His voice was crawling upwards in volume. Hermione almost thought what he said made sense. "You're always so difficult about this stuff, Hermione." He punched the bed. "Could you just relax just this once?" Hermione's stomach knotted, and her spine pressed firmly against the backboard. "Don't go inching back like that, it's not like I'm a monster." He sounded agitated, now.

"You snuck into my house." Hermione whispered.

"It's my house, too." Ron threw back, casually. "It's not like I'm going to hurt you."

"You have before." She said.

"Really?" Ron sat back on his heels, his face contorting. "Are you really going to hold that over my head?" He flung his hands in the air. "I'm not the only one who goes to shit when I'm mad." He was quieter, now. "At least I don't shut people out, and stick my nose in the air and try to make everyone around me feel inferior."

Hermione sniffed.

"You know what Hell life has been since Fred…" he said. "Yet you won't give me a break. What kind of fiancé are you?"

"Ron, I—" Hermione tried to start, but Ron interrupted her.

"You just look for reasons to reject me," he sneered. "Because you fancy I'm not good enough for you." His hands found their way to the outline of her ankles. "What is it? Am I too poor? Too ugly?" His grip tightened. "Too stupid?"

Ron's ratty bangs cast a shadow over his eyes as he looked up at her with fury. Hermione's chin quivered, and the tip of her nose ached. All over, in every pore of her body, she felt the word "No."

"And I've just been sitting around," he gritted his words, now. "Waiting for you to make up your damn mind. If I'm worth settling for. Waiting on you, hand and foot like some sort of," his voice rasped. "Dog."

"I have news for you Hermione," he continued. "I wouldn't drink so much but for you." His voice caught for a moment, and he righted himself, pushing the steel back into his eyes. "You've ruined me." He lunged forward on that last part, pushing himself, his torso, his heavy hands and acid breath all forward, onto Hermione. Her head jolted against the iron backboard at the impact.

"Made me feel like nothing, ordered me around," he gripped her chin and turned it to face him. "And that stunt today was just like you. Making me think you were finally mine, just to reel back from my waiting arms at the last second. In front of everyone."

"So just this once," Ron growled. "On our wedding night, we're going to do what I want to do."

His hands were pressed over her mouth, then accidentally into it. And she was choking on his fingers, lurching, shaking, but he wouldn't move. The weight was too much, she couldn't breathe, she kept trying but it just hurt. and where was Harry, where was Ginny, where was anyone, oh God even Draco, just somebody.

The blanket twisted around one of her legs and Ron wouldn't stop kissing her neck, and pushing her cami up to a pile of wrinkles under her chin, and pushing her chest down, and yanking at her legs, fumbling, tearing, screaming, like she was falling out of a moving car, just to land into yet another car she was about to fall out of.

Ron wriggled, and then his hips began to jolt, and that was when Hermione looked up at him. There were tears dripping down his face.

Bad people don't cry when they hurt others.

Maybe Hermione deserved it.

Ron shuddered and collapsed to her side.

Maybe Hermione was the bad one.

With that thought, Hermione fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three.

Slipping.

Her head hurt. And there was a buzzing. A constant buzzing. Hermione moaned, and pulled the pillow closer to her chest. Everything hurt.  
The buzz faded, and she sighed. Only for it to come back again. She cracked open her eyelids, feeling puffy and swollen. As it turns out, the buzzing was more of a rattling, against the table.

Her phone.

Hermione swiped it into her hand, flipping it open.

"Hello?" She croaked. The back of her throat still felt dry.

"She picked up!" the frantic shout blasted through the speaker, assaulting her ears.

"What?" she asked.

"Hermione, where are you?" It was Harry.

"The house," Hermione replied, taking in the empty room. "What time is it?"

"It's Ron," Harry rushed through his words. "He's here, and you need to get here."

"Where? What's going on?" her hair tangled in her fingers. Across the room, the stately mirror above the chest of dark, wooden drawers reflected her pathetic image back to her. Eyeliner smudges across her face, her skin tinting purple across her shoulders, up her neck. Her nightgown hid the rest, but for the blood stain, dried, seeped into the crotch of the garment, and the sheets of the bed, Hermione realized with a sigh.

"Did you listen to any of my messages?" Harry's tone was clipped, impatient.

"No," Hermione paused. "No… I just woke up." She whispered.

"We're at Mungo's." Harry said. "Hurry."

#  
Ron laid under the thin blanket, his shoulder covered in a thick bandage.

"He tried to **what**—"Mrs. Weasley's screech echoed in the corridor. Hermione didn't move from his bedside. It was unexpected, but it made sense. At least, that's what she kept telling herself. The second things didn't make sense was the second she fell apart, and she wasn't ready to do that yet.

Ron had been found this morning, out front of the burrow. Sweating, dazed, convulsing. Wand cracked down the middle, the shards of wood still splintered in his palms.

He must've left the cottage and returned to the burrow.

Hurt, confused, alone. Hermione swallowed her guilt.

"I'll see my own baby if I want to," the door banged open, and Mrs. Weasley stepped through. "What happened, Sweetheart?" Hermione was just about to explain that Ron was heavily sedated and unable to respond, when she realized Mrs. Weasley's eyes rested on her, not Ron.

"I-I'm not sure." She offered, lamely. "I wasn't there."

"I just found him this morning," Mrs. Weasley's voice cracked. "All lain out on the ground, and I thought maybe you'd had it out." Her nose was as red as her hair, and she waved her hankerchief around. "I thought you might not come, and it broke my heart." She crossed the room and threw her arms around Hermione's frame. The impact knocked her off kilter, and Hermione fought the lump in her throat as sharp pain radiated through her bruises. Carefully concealed, beneath a scarf, a sweater, and a conservative pair of jeans.

"All he'd want is you to be here," Mrs. Weasley said. "All he ever did want was you." The woman touched Hermione's chin with a finger.

"Did he go to you last night?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"No… I," Hermione paused. "I was completely alone."

"If that Draco boy had just kept to himself," Mrs. Weasley said. "Maybe we'd be doing something else this morning." Her body shook with sobs. "Maybe not watching my… my baby suffer."

Harry entered the room, closing the door softly.

"Hermione, I need to talk with you." He pulled her from the older woman, and took her into the sitting room.

"What really happened last night?" His dark eyes blazed behind his glasses, and his hand was light on Hermione's shoulder.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione cried and crumpled against him. "This is my fault."

"They think he tried to use the killing curse," Harry's voice was low. "On himself."

A few people in the waiting area turned their heads, curious for a show. Hermione stuffed her nose into Harry's collared shirt, ashamed. The fabric was white, and soft, and…much too high of quality to be wearing at a hospital. She backed up a step, and took the boy in. He was still wearing his wedding wear.

"Did you sleep last night?" she asked. "I'm sorry, Harry, I didn't even think to ask after you, I'm just not myself and—"

"Shhh." Harry held a finger to her lips. "I was taking care of Draco, just as promised." He offered a small smile. "It was a bigger job than I signed up for, but I didn't want you to worry." He shrugged. "He's in a mental health ward, now."

Hermione nodded, numb.

"This isn't your fault." Harry whispered.

"You don't know that." Hermione replied. "You don't know what I did." Harry's eyebrows furrowed with concern, and he placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her to an empty side room. He left the door open, and somehow, that made Hermione feel better.

"What's going on, 'Mione?" Harry stooped to get a better look into her eyes.

"He came to the cottage last night." Hermione said. Harry's eyes widened. "He just… walked right in."

"He didn't have a key," Harry gritted his teeth. "The fool used magic."

"I didn't think to protect against it." Hermione whispered. "He was hurting and drunk and angry," she paused, her breath hitching in her throat. Harry laid a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched.

"Hermione…" His voice was guarded, a blank sheet draped over it. He was trying not to scare her.

"All because I'd never thought of him, never given him what he needed." Hermione cried. "Never respecting him, and he needed me to, Harry, he needed me to."

"What'd he do?" Harry's free hand curled into a fist.

"He tried to love me, he tried to be happy, and I made it impossible." Hermione's hiccups were mixing with the spit and snot. Harry tightened his hand, and Hermione winced.

"What did he do, Hermione?" His tone was low. Hermione shook her head, burying her face in her hands. Harry gently tugged her scarf to the side and gasped. "Hermione."

Then the scarf came undone, and it fluttered like a dying bird to the floor.

"Hermione, oh Merlin, Hermione, please," Harry's arms were around her, holding her up, and there was a ringing in her head, and everything hurt.

"He took it." She whispered.

"Help!" Harry's voice was hoarse, echoed and distant as he screamed towards the hallway.


End file.
